


something they can (never) take away

by Chrome



Category: Firefly, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, Firefly AU, Firefly4Ham, I am not even to blame for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5733727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some wars you can't win--even if you're a genius pilot from a Rim planet with a hell of a grudge.</p><p>It's a Firefly AU, motherfuckers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i will (gladly) join the fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dytabytes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dytabytes/gifts).



Iscariot is dismal even by the standards of a moon of Fury, a little rock circling a gas giant in the furthest reaches of the Rim.  Awash in the bright blue light of _Qing Long_ , it is home to a population of only about twenty-three thousand, give or take a few.

One of them is named Alexander Hamilton.

His father splits when he’s ten; that’s not much of a surprise, this far out in the ‘Verse.  If you’re living on a rock like Iscariot, you’re either poor as dirt or you’ve got good reason to want to be as far from the government as possible, and Alex may be young but he’s not stupid.  James Hamilton owes money to everyone from Deadwood to Whitefall.

He doesn’t come back, of course.  Not even when sickness hits the colony two years later, when what starts as a hacking cough and a creeping exhaustion leaves both Alex and his mother bedridden.  Alexander remembers only pieces of it—muffled voices speaking incoherently, unbearable heat alternating with terrible cold, his mother lying beside him.

He cannot seem to die, even in the worst moments when he nearly wishes for it.  It is not the same for his mother—she slips away too easily.

He remembers being too weak to object as they lift her limp body away from him.

He recovers with a new resentment for Iscariot, for the Rim, for a place where a woman could die of a treatable illness because everyone is too poor to do anything.  The only benefit to a small population is a sense of community; someone takes pity on him enough to offer him a clerkship at the mining depot.

Alexander spends four years taking note of the meager supplies that ship in, the tons of rock that ship out, the fuel bought by passing ships, the illness and injuries that are racked up by the mine workers and the meager sums they are given as recompense.  He starts reading, everything he can get his hands on, newsfeeds and novels and maps.

He watches the ships fly away and tells himself that someday, he’ll be at the controls of one of them.

When he is seventeen, brightness splits the sky above Iscariot as two asteroids collide with each other.  Massive chunks of debris fall to earth, pitting the surface and crumbling buildings, and as he crouches beneath his desk Alexander thinks, _this is where I die._

It isn’t, and when it all stops and he looks at the wreckage and the destruction, he is furious all over again, furious enough to write a letter to his missing father, a letter describing the splintered houses and shaking ground and burning rocks plummeting from the heavens.

He submits it to the newspaper.  His father, of course, doesn’t read it, but everyone else does, and everyone else sits up and pays attention—including a man passing through from the Core.  He is tall and well-dressed and wears the badge of a government official.

Most of all, he looks at Alexander, really looks at him, as though there’s something special about him.

“The Alliance is looking for people like you,” he says.  “How would you like to get an education?”

\---

The Unification War is just kicking off when John Laurens’ suspicions get the best of him and he sneaks into the Academy at night.  John knows what matters to his father, to the Alliance, to the cold and haughty men that he has grown up around.  It isn’t bettering the lives of the unfortunate.  Whatever the Academies are meant to do, it isn’t for the public welfare.

The halls are dark and looming; too many doors are locked for his liking.  It reminds him more of a prison than a school, everything too sleek and sharp and icy.

Everything, he realizes, is alarmed—every door, every stairwell.  Either he pushes on and flees for his life in the end, or he leaves right then and no one is ever the wiser.

In the end, it isn’t much of a choice after all.

Maybe it’s sheer luck, maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s something else, but the door he forces open is the room of nineteen-year-old Alexander Hamilton.

The alarm starts sounding and they stare at each other, wide-eyed, for a split second.

“I’m John Laurens!” he shouts, over the alarms.  “I’m breaking you out of here!”

He holds his hand out.

It is only another moment before Alexander takes it.

John pulls him out of the room, down the hall, out the doors and beyond the fences.  The alarms keep echoing, and Alexander is dizzy with the noise, the flashing lights and then suddenly the cool night air around him.

John knows where they are going; Alexander follows at first blindly, and then hurrying to keep pace rather than trail in his wake.  They slow down only once they are well into the city, and the specter of the academy has faded far behind them.

“Who are you?” Laurens asks, breathless.

“Alexander Hamilton,” he says, the situation spiraling into less and less sense.  “Why did you rescue me?”

“That place is not a school,” John says, with conviction.

“No shit,” says Alexander.  He’s short compared to John, thin even for his stature; there’s something shadowed about his eyes.  “I’m not upset, I mean, thanks, but—why me?”

“Picked a door at random,” Laurens admits, and Hamilton is startled into a sharp laugh.

“Are they coming after us?” Alexander asks.

“Probably not,” Laurens says.  “They’ve got bigger worries, I think.  There’s a war starting.”

“A war?” Hamilton asks.

“The Independent Planets,” Laurens says.  “They’re fighting back against the Alliance, against unification.  On Shadow.  I’m going to join them,” he adds, impulsively.

“I’m coming,” Hamilton says, instantly, and John finds himself grinning.

“Great.  Can you fly a ship?”

Now Hamilton is grinning back.  “The Alliance is going to regret the day they taught me how.”

\---

The ship they steal is a piece of crap, but it gets them out to Shadow in the end, even though they’re limping from planet to planet most of the way across the Borders just to keep it in the air.  It’s when they stop on Three Hills that the ship well and truly dies, and neither John nor Alexander has any idea how to get it in the air again.

That’s where they meet Lafayette, in a tavern, drinking for lack of better ideas.  Laurens has had enough to let it slip where they’re headed, and for a split second afterwards he panics, wondering whether they’ll have to run and hide.

Then Lafayette says, “I’ll fix your ship if you bring me with you.”

They are not exactly model soldiers; Laurens is the oldest and only twenty, and has no plan at all.  Everything since he first saw Alexander has been one blind leap after the next, but nothing will change his mind now.  Of that, he is certain, and more certain every time he looks at Alex or Lafayette.

Alexander is nineteen and wildly brilliant; he never stops talking and flies like he was born to do it.  There’s something old about him, the way he looks sometimes, like he’s lived much longer than nineteen years.  He has violent nightmares, at first, until he takes to sleeping beside one of the others, and then they begin to fade.

Lafayette is barely eighteen; he speaks French more easily than Mandarin or English and talks to the ship like it’s a person.  Alone among them, he carries a pistol; he has grown up in the Georgia system, and he has seen this coming, he may be barely more than a boy but he is as prepared to die as any of them.

Shadow has already become a battlefield by the time they arrive, the trees pitted with bullets, gunfire echoing in the air.  It might have been a beautiful planet under any other circumstances, but they never would have seen it then, never would have met.

In that way, it is even more beautiful under fire.

The advantage of being in a piece of shit ship that only the combined brilliance of Lafayette and Hamilton is keeping in the air is that no one spares a shot for them when they make to land.  John can see the exact moment that Hamilton realizes they’re flying under the radar, the way his eyes light up.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly.  “Let’s go steal their anti-aircraft guns.”

\---

General Washington is already becoming a legend at this point, but even the stories don’t quite manage to capture him entirely.  He is tall and imposing, always exuding a steely calm even when the bullets are flying, even under the worst conditions.

Alexander Hamilton doesn’t think anything could completely blindside Washington, but disembarking their ship and depositing Alliance weaponry at his feet seems to come pretty close.

They are not trained soldiers, but neither are most of the Browncoats.  Alexander is a pilot, which makes him a valuable asset even if he weren’t a genius as well.  Laurens gets comfortable with a gun faster than he would have expected, is startled by his own ability to keep his cool in the heat of battle.  Lafayette seems to win the General over within a few minutes of meeting, and his tactical sense and skills as a mechanic only make him more popular with the army.

They live together, fight together, trust each other.  “You’re the first friends I’ve ever had,” Alexander announces, sleepily, one night.

“Ever?” Laurens asks, surprised.

“I’m from the Rim,” Alexander shrugs.  “Pretty lonely up there.”

“Where?” asks Lafayette, who has a much better sense of the astrography of the ‘Verse than John ever has.

“Iscariot,” Alexander says.  “When I was seventeen, an Alliance officer came through.  He saw something I’d written, and offered me a place at a school in the Core.”

“But it wasn’t a school,” John says.

“It was at first,” Alexander says.  “For a year or so, it really was a school.  It was good.  That’s when I learned how to fly.  Then they started testing us, and taking some people away.  They stopped letting us leave, they installed all those alarms—I started to hear screaming at night.”

“What were they doing?” John asks.

“No idea,” Alexander says.  “They wanted soldiers, I think.  They did some tests, on me, but they never—they were giving some of the others drugs, taking them away, just a couple at a time.  They never got to me.”

“Thank God,” says Lafayette, breaking his silence.

“Anyway,” Alexander says.  “What about you, Lafayette?  Where are you from?”

“My parents named me after the moon I was born on,” he says.  “Then they died.  I knew some mechanics—I learned some more, and then offered my services to any ship that would get me to Three Hills.  I had been working there since.”

They are silent for a moment; Lafayette apparently does not feel the need to elaborate, and Alexander does not ask another question.

“And you are from the Core, Laurens?” Lafayette says.

“Yeah,” John says.  “Assholes.”  He doesn’t want to talk about it, and his friends seem to sense this.

“Assholes,” Lafayette agrees; it sounds strange in his accent, and Alexander smiles.

\---

They’re forced to retreat when the bombs start falling.

The Alliance can’t beat them on the ground, and for a while it feels like they’re winning, like they’re going to hold Shadow.  They can’t hold out forever, of course, but they’ve got their heels dug in and the Alliance is faltering.  They’re losing men, losing supplies.

But of course, Hamilton realizes, the Alliance couldn’t let the Independents win.  They couldn’t leave thousands of innocent people be.  If they couldn’t take Shadow, they’d destroy it entirely.

They retreat, Hamilton at the controls of a ship, and Laurens stares out the starboard window and watches the planet’s beauty turn to ash.

They make camp on Hera; the planet is beautiful, well-maintained, agricultural.  Laurens is half-afraid that it too will go the way of Shadow, that the Alliance will destroy it, but it’s less likely.  Hera is more important to the Alliance, more valuable.  He can only hope it means they won’t burn it. 

They make camp on the edge of the town of Serenity View, overlooking the Valley.

“We have to hold it,” Lafayette says, looking out.  “We lose Hera, we lose the war.”  His accent has faded more and more over the months.

“Then we can’t lose Hera,” says John.

They are exhausted, low on supplies, low on morale.  General Washington goes to meet with a wealthy man in town, Philip Schuyler.  Hamilton goes with him, and John thinks nothing of it.

Then Hamilton keeps going with him, and then going by himself, and then one day he steps into their tent and Alexander is kissing a beautiful young woman.

“Am I interrupting something?” he says, and they spring apart.  The woman is blushing, but Alexander doesn’t look the slightest bit repentant.

“John!” he smiles.  “This is Elizabeth Schuyler.”

“Call me Eliza,” she says, and shakes his hand, and then makes her excuses and goes.

“Can we trust her?” John asks.

“Of course,” Alexander says, dismissive.  “The Schuylers support the Independent cause.”  He gets a little starry eyed.  “And it’s Eliza.”

“Of course,” John echoes.

They start to see a lot more of Eliza after that.  He and Lafayette tease Alexander mercilessly, of course, but he likes Eliza.  She’s sweet, and sensible.  She really does believe in the Independent cause, hates the Alliance as fiercely as they do.

And, of course, she makes Alexander happy.

So he can’t possibly dislike her.

They have a good few months; it’s spring on Hera, and they settle in.  They train, they gather supplies, they set up defenses.  The Schuyler family are not the only Independents on Hera.  There is a tailor, Hercules Mulligan, who sews clothes for wealthy government officials by day, and each night passes coded messages to them about rumors of supplies, of troop movements, of enemy plans.  Farmers are happy to sell them food and supplies; they are welcome on the planet.

They lose Hera.

They lose Hera and they lose the war and they all have nightmares now, there’s no escaping them.  General Washington looks haunted as he calls for them to retreat, as the valley burns.  They have to abandon so many of their dead.

Laurens has been learning to be a medic, but he doesn’t know enough, not anywhere close, and he can’t save them.  He watches people bleed out, people burn.  Hamilton keeps scrupulous lists of the dead, of those left behind, but even with all their effort and care there are still too many missing.  He wants to imagine that they have escaped, but it’s far more likely that their corpses are just lying in the ash, unnoticed.

Lafayette is shot through the leg as they retreat.  It is not a retreat anymore, not really.  The army has been decimated.  They are the only ones who have continued to follow Washington.  Most others are dead, although John suspects some of them have fled.  He cannot blame them.  There is no cause to desert anymore.

The Alliance has won, and they can only try to survive, survive as Hamilton writes furiously and Washington does not seem to sleep and Lafayette limps and does not complain.

John is worried, worried that his weak semblance of training is not enough, but it is Hamilton who is truly panicked.  He whispers furiously to Laurens whenever Lafayette and Washington are at a safe distance, concerns about infection, about blood loss, about a lack of medical supplies.  A childhood on the Rim has shown him exactly how easy it was to die in the wrong circumstances, and he is painfully aware of their vulnerability.

It is late evening, several days later, when they reach the edge of Serenity View, of their first encampment.  Hamilton won’t take his eyes off it, staring at the walls, the houses, as though he can see Eliza through everything else.

The city stays intact, although it is occupied by the Alliance.  There is nothing pleasant about the view from it anymore.  Everything smells of smoke and death.

They need to get off the planet, fly for the Rim, get away from the death that is nipping at their heels, but they have nothing left.  All they can do is wait, John thinks.  Until Lafayette dies of his wounds, or they all starve, or the Alliance find them and kill them.

He thinks, for a second, that the last has happened well into the night, when Hamilton stiffens and stares at the horizon.  John follows his gaze, and at the edge of the camp is a figure.

Then Hamilton is on his feet, running towards it.  “Eliza!”

She has a large bag slung over her shoulder and something clutched in her fist.  She wears a heavy coat and a determined expression.  “I have a ship for you.  It’s not—a nice ship.  It’s an old Firefly-class.  But it’s all I could get.”  She hands Alexander the keys, and he looks at her as if she hung the stars.

“You got me a ship,” he says, and for the first time in weeks John sees him smile.

“I have something else for you, if you’ll have it,” she says, quietly.  “I want to come with you.”

“Eliza,” his eyes widen.  “We’re fugitives, Eliza.  We’ll never be able to have a normal life, not while the Alliance still stands.”

She straightens.  “But we’ll be together.  That would be enough.”

Alexander kisses her, then, and doesn’t stop until Washington clears his throat.  “We have to leave,” he says.  “You’re sure about this, Miss Schuyler?”

“Yes,” she says.

He looks at her for a long moment, and then nods, satisfied.  “The bag?” he asks Eliza.

“Medical supplies,” she says.  “And clothes.”

He nods.  “We need the cover of darkness to leave.  We go now, before the sun rises.”

Alexander can’t help but stop in his tracks when they reach the lot where she has left the ship.  The Firefly is old.  It is not, as Eliza put it, a nice ship.  But it is big, and the closest thing to safety they’ve had in forever, and it is his.

His ship, his friends, his wife.

He has those things, and the sky, and that would have to be enough, he thinks, as he starts the engines, as they lift off the ground, as he sends them rocketing towards the stars.  For now, anyway.

It’s more than he’s every had before.

 


	2. and if there's a reason that i'm [still] alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more than one way to fight a war.

Sihnon is stunningly beautiful, the seat of Eastern Civilization settled at the core of the galaxy. The planet glows with the electricity of Lu’Weng and the white light of _Bai Hu_ , and the energy of a population of more than five billion people.

One of them is named Aaron Burr.

He is two years old when he is orphaned—his older sister, Sally, is four. The pair are briefly sent to live with their grandparents on Ariel, but they die less than a year later, and so Sally and Aaron are sent back to Sihnon to live under the nominal supervision of an aunt and uncle.

Aaron grows up with the knowledge that his parentage was slightly unusual; it is rare enough for Companions to have children, and rarer still to have them with each other. He is not disrespected or outright excluded by the other children, but the uniqueness of his family history and his own status as an orphan keeps him apart from the other children in the Core.

Instead of drowning in the loneliness, he embraces it, burying himself in his studies and his silence. He convinces himself that the isolation is fine. So what if his parents are dead, his grandparents are dead, everyone who has ever loved him gone in a few short years? It is easy enough to pretend that it doesn’t hurt to live apart. His parents had lived in society but apart from it, and he fully intends to do the same. He applies to the Guild House on Sihnon at age twelve and is accepted immediately.

He isn’t surprised. Control is the first and last lesson of Companions, and Aaron has that in _spades_.

He also learns quickly—studies literature and politics and music, dancing and fencing and martial arts, rapidly surpassing his peers. The biggest challenge, of course, is learning how to speak to clients—how to make them feel like you care when they’re really not much different than anyone else. It’s all about the right façade—of care and of control, and Aaron has been lying to himself his whole life. Lying to other people is easy in comparison. It’s easy to smile whether or not you mean it.

He passes his examination with flying colors at age eighteen. For a month, he stays on Sihnon, meeting his first clients in their homes and hotels. It is as easy as he has always expected it to be, and he is relieved that despite everything, he has found the right path.

Then what will later be known as the War of Unification breaks out, and everything gets complicated.

\---

Theodosia Prevost is nervous; she is hiding it fairly well, but nervous all the same. She keeps glancing around the room, looking for familiar—and unfamiliar—faces.  
“Theodosia, relax,” Caty says, sipping at her drink. “He’ll get here when he gets here.”

“And Joseph thinks we can trust her?” she asks. 

She doesn’t get an answer, though, because something across the room has caught her sister’s attention. She raises a hand in a half wave and then lowers it, apparently satisfied.

“They’re coming over,” Caty says. “And of course Joseph thinks we can trust him, he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

“Him?” Theodosia questions, and then she sees them. Caty’s fiancé, Joseph Browne, leading a young man through the crowd. Theodosia has met a number of Companions, but mostly female—she knows that male Companions exist, but has never spoken to one before tonight.

As they draw closer and she can see them better, she is surprised. “He’s very young,” she murmurs to Caty.

“And very handsome,” Caty notes, correctly interpreting the catch in Theodosia’s voice.

“You are engaged,” Theodosia says, reproachfully.

“You’re not,” Caty replies.

“No, I’m married,” Theodosia hisses back.

Caty makes a noise in her throat that implies that she’s ready to argue the importance of that fact, but Joseph and the Companion reach them and she falls silent.

“Caty,” Joseph greets them, “Theodosia, this is Mr. Aaron Burr. Mr. Burr, this is Miss De Visme and Mrs. Prevost.”

“The wife of Jacques Prevost?” the young man asks. Everything in his tone is conversational—there is nothing to indicate it is anything more than a polite inquiry. Theodosia knows, though, that her husband has a reputation as an officer in the Alliance army. Asked here to help the Independent cause, it makes sense that he would be immediately suspicious of the Prevost name.

“I am,” Theodosia says, simply.

“I have heard a great deal of his political opinion, lately,” Burr says, and oh, Theodosia can’t help but admire how skillfully he directs the conversation. He has brought up her husband and his Loyalist politics without so much as hinting at the fact that he might have an opinion one way or the other.

“Then you have heard very little of mine,” Theodosia says, trying to speak lightly, although she is sure that her tone does not manage to be as casual as his.

“I appear to have suffered a loss without realizing it,” he says. “I hope I will have the opportunity to remedy it.” His words come almost immediately, and despite their formality, they feel more genuine than everything he’s said previously. It’s a compliment from a Companion, and one who has every reason to be wary in that moment, but she still can’t shake the sense that he means it.

“Joseph says you can help us,” Caty says, redirecting the conversation.

“I hope I can,” Aaron says, carefully noncommittal.

“Perhaps we can step outside,” she makes a gesture towards the open doors leading out onto the veranda. It’s a beautiful night, the lights of the city glowing in the distance, and the four of them making their way through the crowd into the cool air of the gardens.

“We have a vested interest in possessing more information about the plans and resources of the Alliance fleet at Shadow,” Caty says, once they are surrounded by topiary. Joseph takes a few steps up the path, making as if to admire the plants when Theodosia knows he is guarding against eavesdroppers.

“I’m afraid that I’m hardly an expert in military matters,” Aaron demurs.

“No,” Caty says, “But Companions serve as the confidantes of many who are.”

He looks up; something flashes in his eyes. “Apologies if I have misunderstood your request,” he says, “But are you asking me to spy on my clients for you?”

“No,” Caty says instantly, and then backtracks, “Well, not precisely. But we had thought, if you might make yourself available to certain members of Alliance leadership and if they should confide in you, that you might pass along that information.”

“We appear to have a misunderstanding,” Aaron says, flatly. “I am a Companion. I am not a spy—or a whore.”

Caty looks a little stunned. “I didn’t mean to imply,” she begins, weakly.

“I’m sure.” Aaron cuts her off, tone cool.

Theodosia has never seen Caty look this flustered before; her sister has always been highly comfortable in society, capable of manipulating conversations to her whims, and she’s finally met someone who’s far better at it than she is. This negotiation is rapidly spiraling out of control—Caty is at a loss and Aaron looks genuinely offended.

“Caty, how about you go check in with Joseph,” Theodosia says. It isn’t really a suggestion. Caty shoots her a look, but makes her escape.

“I apologize,” Aaron says, a little stiffly. “I was—rude.”

“No,” Theodosia says, “You weren’t.” He raises an eyebrow. “A little harsh, maybe, but she did sort of suggest that you fuck some people for information, so. It wasn’t uncalled for.”

“Yes,” Aaron says, dryly. “Please, tell me, why your plan was to ask a Companion to, first, select clients based on your needs rather than their preference, and second, then proceed to betray the trust afforded to their position by then passing on confidential information?”

Theodosia can’t hide her grimace. “Well, it sounds bad when you put it that way.”

“It sounds bad whatever way you put it,” Aaron says. “So. Either you’re far stupider than I’ve given you credit for, or something possessed you to suggest something so genuinely appalling.”

“We don’t have another choice,” she says. “We don’t have enough information. We are going to lose Shadow. The Alliance is already taking a scorched earth policy—if they take a city, it burns to the ground. If the Alliance win, there won’t even be a Shadow anymore.”

He looks at her for a long moment—judging her, she is sure. She must pass whatever test it is, because he sighs and puts a hand to his temple.

“Give me one name. One, and then we’ll see.”

\---

They meet again, entirely by accident, in a library almost six months later.

“Oh, pardon me,” she apologizes as she bumps into someone, trying to reach a book. “I didn’t—Mr. Burr,” she cuts herself off, startled. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Mrs. Prevost,” he says, something odd in his tone. “My apologies.” He turns to go.

“Aaron,” she says, the edge to his demeanor worrying her. She has not seen him in six months, but he has kept in contact with Joseph through an intermediary, passing them a steady stream of information. The war has gone on, and they have managed to hold Shadow.

He turns back, with some reluctance, but politeness seems to be an ingrained response. “Yes?”

“Are you—well?”

“Fine, thank you,” he says. “And yourself?”

“I’m doing well,” she hesitates. “You had said, before, that you hoped to have the opportunity to speak with me. I had hoped for the same.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “Good day, Mrs. Prevost.”

“Wait,” she catches his hand before he can go, and it is then she realizes that it is shaking. “Not—just for dinner. I’d like to have dinner with you. That’s all.”

He looks at her, that same judging look from before, and she still doesn’t know what he sees but it must be something, because he sits across from her at her kitchen table that evening, staring into his wine glass.

The house is large and empty; her husband is gone, has been gone for months, and she doesn’t miss him but she doesn’t like the eeriness of the house, the way it echoes with only her in it. Aaron’s presence is in a way comforting, although he doesn’t do much to fill the silence.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Theodosia says, carefully.

“You haven’t,” he assures her.

“You’re very quiet.”

“I’m afraid I’m a poor conversationalist.”

“I know that isn’t true,” she replies.

“I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener,” he says it lightly, but there is a sharpness to it, like everything he has said that day. “If there’s something bothering you, please tell me.”

She hesitates. “This may seem too forward, and I know we don’t know each other well, but you seem—not yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she says, suddenly and fiercely.

He looks startled; the defensiveness falls away, and he suddenly looks very young and very tired.

“I’m not,” he agrees, softly. “Two nights ago, a client told me that the Alliance didn’t believe they could take Shadow.”

He is silent for a moment; she wants to urge him onwards but knows better than to interrupt.

“So they’ve decided to firebomb it. Better that the whole planet and whole population die than the Independents have it.”

There is no emotion in his tone, but Theodosia can’t hold back a gasp.

“I’ve passed the information on, of course, but the plan’s in motion. There’s not much that can be done to stop it now. So Shadow falls, and everything I’ve done has been for nothing. _Theodosia,_ ” his voice breaks, and he pushes the glass away from him shakily, as though he doesn’t trust himself to touch it.

“Aaron,” she stands up and walks around the table, enclosing his hands in hers. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he sounds utterly defeated. “I used to enjoy my work,” he says, softly. “And now—everyone I speak to is repellant, their ideas disgust me, I can still feel their hands on me and _we have gained nothing._ ”

She releases his hands, only to step forward and embrace him. For a fraction of a second, he tenses, and then relaxes into her, curling an arm about her waist.  
They stand like that for a time, and Theodosia gradually becomes aware of their proximity, the warmth of his breath and the thud of his heartbeat. She pulls back a little to look at him and finds that his eyes are on her as well, and then he pulls her back in, except this time their lips meet and he’s kissing her and she holds tight to him and doesn’t let go.

\---

She gets a notice that her husband is dead one day shortly before the end of the war. They all know it’s coming; the Browncoats are cornered in Serenity Valley and they’re losing ground every day.

She is lying in bed, checking her messages, when she sees the missive. Stamped and official. His body will be sent back when possible, deepest condolences, died for the good of them all.

“What is it?” Aaron asks, rolling over to look at her.

“Jacques is dead,” she says.

“What?” he sits up, and she pulls him back down.

“He’s dead. I can’t say I’m sorry for it.”

“I’m certainly not,” Aaron agrees, and gets that faint startled look that he always has when he voices an opinion without thinking. She knows, terribly well by now, how careful he is about his words, how calculated his behavior is, around everyone but her.

She laughs and sets the pad aside, sliding over on top of him. “They’ll contact me again when I have to deal with the body. Until then, I have better things to be doing.”

They aren’t always careful enough—all things considered, it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that a few weeks after news of the war’s end reaches Sihnon, she finds herself staring at a positive pregnancy test.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron is apologizing again, has apologized so many times that she’s actually lost count. “I should have been more careful.” He is standing stock-still, and she has known him long enough to read his distress in the line of his shoulders and his careful avoidance of eye contract, even though on the outside he is perfectly composed. She hasn’t seen him lose his composure since that first night at the table, and isn’t sure she will again.

“We should have been more careful,” she corrects, “I was there too.” She’s been thinking about it, a lot, thinking about the idea of a child with Aaron. “I want to have this baby.”

He turns, expression frozen, and for a moment she thinks that everything she’s afraid of is coming to life. “I understand if you don’t—if you don’t want to. But I do. You don’t have to stay.”

“No, I—“ Aaron shakes off the momentary paralysis and closes the distance between them. “I love you. I want to do this with you.” And he looks at her in that moment with such fierce love than all her fear drains away.

“I don’t want her to grow up here,” Theodosia says. “I don’t want to stay in the Core.”

“No,” Aaron agrees. “And she’ll be isolated. The children of Companions are—set apart.”

“We should move to the Border,” Theodosia says. “Not too far out, but—not too close.”

“I can contract with a ship that passes through frequently,” Aaron says. “Keep working, but—not where she’s growing up. People won’t talk so much, then.”

“So we’re doing this,” she says, with a sense of finality. The war is over, they have lost, but they will have this future.

“Do you want to get married?” he asks, suddenly.

She thinks about it for a moment, then shakes her head. “Not—not yet. Someday, but—not here. Once I’m settled, and you’ve found a ship, and—not yet.”

“Not yet,” he agrees. “But someday?”

“Someday,” and he steps in and kisses her and she knows everything will be alright.

\---

A month later he finds himself in the shipyards of Persephone, five minutes early to meet a member of the crew, wondering—

\--why would anyone name their ship the _America_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaron Burr is Inara and I'm not even sorry.
> 
> Historically, Caty de Visme was Theodosia Prevost Burr's half-sister and an absolute gift--for example, she wrote Aaron Burr to tell him when Theodosia's husband kicked the bucket. Not precisely subtle, but quite effective.
> 
> I love to get feedback and scream about Hamilton, so leave a comment or hit me up @catalists on Tumblr if you want to talk. (And for those of you following my [Modern AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5380469/chapters/12427175), rest assured it will update soon.)

**Author's Note:**

> Everything about this, except for the fact I sat down and wrote it, is dytabytes' fault. Okay, not everything, but a lot of it. Happy belated birthday; I guess it's LMM's birthday, does that count?
> 
> Got all my 'astrography' from the Firefly Wiki.


End file.
